


Drawing Lessons

by Findarato



Series: Encounters [3]
Category: Hakuouki
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, M/M, Sexual Content, kink fill of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 23:09:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3186740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findarato/pseuds/Findarato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saitou/Ibuki: ink brushing. "Wait, you'd let me? For real? But I was joking…sort of…"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drawing Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Idea Factory/Design Factory has rights to Hakuouki. Kazuki Yone has rights to the character designs.
> 
>  **Spoilers:** Reimeiroku game, Saitou's route. Slight AU. I'm so annoyed the anime didn't take Saitou's route because it was one of the best ones. I love Souji, really, but getting shoved off a bridge isn't very resolved for Ibuki. Saitou's route had him finding purpose, and he and Saitou had a lot of interesting interactions. Apparently Ibuki rambles about Saitou for pages fff.
> 
>  **Timeframe:** Some time after Ryuunosuke tries drawing after years of not trying because his mother hated it; Saitou finds out, compliments him, and Ibuki realises he was really into it. Then Saitou manages to persuade him to draw some fliers, and everyone liked them a lot. Slight AU because I haven't played the game (I keep meaning to but it's Japanese only and I didn't figure out how to save files OTL) so I'm a little unsure about whether there was enough time for something like this.
> 
>  **Rating:** R for dumb teenagers messing around
> 
>  **Warnings:** Inappropriate use of brushes and ink, smut that's not really smut (it's actually more like a shitton of foreplay), some swearing, Souji being a troll…
> 
>  **A/N:** You know who you are, for giving me these ideas and I end up thinking a ship I thought was crack but turned out to be really endearing in it's own way and SO I HAD TO WRITE IT. But it's seriously a good break from the angst of the other ships I've written. Even though there is some angst—it's Ibuki. Teenagers growing up and all XD Also I am incapable of writing anything short. Not that I'm really saddened by that…

**_Drawing Lessons_**

He admits, the smell of ink was a calming one. No matter how bad his memories were of his mother throwing away his drawings, he's always liked the sharp, clean scent when he scrubs the inkstick against the stone. His brushes probably put a professional to shame, but it's not the material that really matters. What matters is skill.

Honestly? His work is still rough. It's sketchy, messy, and he winces at the splatters he leaves everywhere. Perhaps the only thing he's proud of is the certainty in the strokes he puts down on the paper. His arm aches, as does his neck, but he surveys his most recent work with no small amount of pride.

It's a nice feeling, being accomplished. There's not a lot in his life he can be proud of, anyway.

"Ibuki."

He snaps out of his thoughts. "What? Who is it?" He didn't think he has any chores left, but this is Serizawa, who makes his life miserable even on a nice afternoon as this.

"It's Saitou."

"Oh. Come in." He slides the door open with a careless hand, rubbing at the stains on his fingers. "This isn't about more sword practice, is it?"

"Would you like more sword practice?"

"N—ah, I'll think about it. I'm probably a waste of your time, haha…"

"Survival is not a waste of time."

"…right." He scratches the back of his head. "Then if you're not here for sword practice…why are you here?"

"I wanted to see how you were doing, with your drawings." Saitou gestures to the pile of papers he's accumulated.

"Wait, really?"

"Is that…not all right?"

"No…" He's still self-conscious about showing his work, much less half-finished work. "No, it's fine. Here." He shoves the pile over at Saitou and sits with his legs and arms crosses, shoulders tense.

Saitou leans over and his hair slides down his; Ibuki follows the movement with his eyes. It's not cold today, but Saitou still has his scarf on. Come to think of, the only times he doesn't see him with it on is when he's doing laundry. Was there a reason for it? It's not his business, anyway.

He chews on his lip as Saitou flips through the papers one by one, slowly. Actually, Ibuki's always been a little unnerved by him—not in a _bad_ way, per se, but in the way that makes him fidget and fight the urge to blurt things out. Saitou isn't like Okita, who said things to piss him off, and neither did he joke like Heisuke or Harada, nor did he insult or shout at him like Hijikata-san or Serizawa-san did. No, Saitou just seemed to say what's on his mind after careful deliberation, with eyes that gauged every reaction.

Threw him off balance, that's what.

He honestly didn't expect this. Someone who liked your work well enough they come directly to you and ask to see it? This might be a first. But drawing is something he didn't expect to be doing right now, in between tasks and errands and chores that were boring. Suddenly he had reason to stay up late, think about something other than "oh, Serizawa-san's going to yell at me to buy more sake."

It also took his mind off Kosuzu. Thoughts of her make him blush, think of other possibilities that he's not even all that sure of. It's not like he even consider his future at this point, or her future, or if she had the same thoughts…

Far easier to focus on right now, even if he feels self-conscious. He isn't used to people watching him paint, and watching people look through things he has completed only a step up from that feeling. But it's Saitou. He wasn't going to laugh at or deride him.

"What do you think?" He finally breaks the silence. "I was trying something new with the lines, but I'm not sure if I like it or now."

"As I said before, there is a spirit to your paintings that seize the heart, and I find myself drawn to it." Saitou hands the papers back, after shuffling them neatly.

"…you sure you're not saying that because you think I want to hear that, do you?"

Saitou looks at him evenly. "I would not lie about this sort of thing."

"A-ah." He backs down. "I'm not call you a liar or anything…I just…" his voice trails off. "I don't usually hear that sort of thing, coming from anyone."

It's pitiable, it's pathetic, and Serizawa would scorn him like he usually did. But what did people even want from him? His life, up this point, had been either doing undignified jobs or scrabbling for money and food in whatever he could. Leaving home was just another area of failure—he got beat up, his possessions stolen. And then he got picked up by the Roshigumi, whom he's now indebted to. It's not a life, it's being dragged around by the scruff of his neck while a couple of bones were thrown at him.

Just like a dog.

He can't exactly place blame on Serizawa for that awful nickname. But painting? It wasn't a bore. Sure, it was exhausting, but it paid off unexpectedly. He did a few fliers, some sketches, and without warning, compliments were flying in. It was…refreshing. Even so, he still had questions. Artist usually apprenticed early, and he's already seventeen. Was it too late for a start? Could he even leave right now, maybe find something for himself?

"Is there something wrong?"

"What?" Apparently, he had been staring at Saitou, who now looks at him with furrowed brows. "No, there isn't. I just can't believe people really like what I'm doing."

"Why would they not?"

"It's the work of an amateur."

"Amateur does not mean lack of heart."

Ibuki remembers just how hard it is to get the last word in with Saitou. "Whatever you say." He fusses with the papers, even though they're already straight. "Did you really come here to see how I was doing?"

"Yes."

"…say, I wonder what it'd be like to draw on something other than paper."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, paper's great, but there's other surfaces, too." He toys with his brush, noting the stiffening ends that need soaking later. "Although I can't exactly paint the walls here because I'd get yelled at. Or…maybe on skin?"

"Skin?"

"Not…not like what Harada does." Oh, Harada and his drunken antics. "Something more like…" He stops. "I'm not sure how to put it into words."

He got the idea when he accidentally pressed the back of his hand to wet paper. As he cursed and pulled it away, he had stopped short, noting the way the ink would move with the tendons on his hand. He'd ended up covering his left arm with swirls and patterns, just to see how it would bend and form.

Actually, he feels a little silly saying it out loud and he tries to cover this up with something even stupider. "Maybe you should let me try it on you, seeing how you like my work so much. It's not permanent or anything, just normal ink." He laughs, expecting the usual simple answer of 'no.' "I can't exactly paint on myself much because I wouldn't be able to reach my back—"

"Would you like to try it?"

"—What?"

"I am asking if you would like to try painting on me."

Flummoxed, he gapes. "No—I mean, yes? It would be really…" He stops. "Wait, you'd let me? For real? But I was joking…sort of…"

"I admit I'm curious." Saitou tilts his head. "And as you say, it is not permanent, so you needn't worry about mistakes."

"Well," Ibuki puts his brush down. "If you're sure."

"You can draw something now."

"Now?"

"Is now not a good time."

"I-I. I have to think of something first. To draw, that is." He looks from Saitou's face to his shoulder, then his arm…and then elsewhere because he doesn't know where to look. "I have to find something that suits you…"

"Please hand me your brush."

"Ah?" He does that, puzzled.

"Now your hand."

 _My hand?_ But he sticks it out. Saitou grips his wrist and turns it palm up, and pushes his sleeve away. He dips the brush in ink and then bends over Ibuki's hand. The soft bristles tickle, tracing his wrist and trailing down to his palm and he forces himself to keep still. When his hand is released, he twists it slightly and sees that Saitou's written out his name in clear, bold strokes. 龍之介; the first character is stamped on his wrist, the second creating a sort of jagged line between his hand and the bones of his wrist, and the last symbol sitting squarely in the middle of his palm.

He has no idea what to say.

It's…beautiful.

"I cannot draw." Saitou speaks in his usual manner, quietly but plainly. "However, I have studied a little calligraphy. _Ryuunosuke_ —a dragon's herald. It is a good name, with much pride in it. I have tried to convey it in what I just wrote." He holds the brush back out. "I am sure you can do something better."

"E-e…" he makes a sound of agreement. "Can you give me some time?"

"If you wish."

"I'll think of something good." He nearly closes his hand, but remembers the ink is still wet. "Can you give me a day?"

"A day will be fine. We can meet again in the afternoon." Saitou bows his head. "Please excuse me."

When he opens the door, a breeze brushes by, tugging at Saitou's hair and scarf. One trailing end of fabric teases Ibuki's nose and he sneezes. By the time he looks up, Saitou is gone.

He can't believe that just happened. Nor can he stop looking at his hand. When it's finally dry, he touches the words, carefully. His finger is nothing like a brush, and even his fingers are not like Saitou's. Saitou's hands are slightly smaller than his, though his fingers were longer. The way he gripped his wrist was not unlike his grip on the _tsuka_ of his katana—how did he explain it? _"Put strength in your grasp starting with the last fingers and then go up. You control the sword with your thumbs."_

What was it like, to do that so instinctively you didn't even think about it? Like breathing or walking. Maybe it's a little like the way he grips his brush, looks at a piece of a paper until an idea comes to him, and he executes it.

It's when he realises how he must look, stroking his own wrist and hand that he hurriedly shoves his sleeve down and begins cleaning up. He's just tired, that's what. And probably so focused on one thing that it's in the forefront of his mind, influencing everything. But it's not like he can take his mind off it. He has to think of something by tomorrow.

And by something, he means a picture that is befitting of Saitou.

**.**

It's not like there's a lot of books lying around. Who even had time to read? He finally has to ask, ends up in stores he usually doesn't go to, spend a whole night practicing…and by the time it's their appointed meeting, Saitou finds him pacing in his room.

"Are you all right?"

"What? Yes. I'm fine." _Just really, really nervous_. Ibuki finally stop pacing, and gestures. "You can sit."

Saitou kneels in seiza form while he pulls out the newest inkstick he purchased and scrapes it. The motion steadies him; he inhales deeply and swirls his brush in the dark liquid.

"Can you hold out your hands?" he instructs, and Saitou immediately follows. Unlike yesterday, his palms automatically face up, so Ibuki copies his motions of turning them over; he wants the back.

"Hold still." Even though he doesn't have to say it, because he knows Saitou can definitely do that. Taking one hand, he shifts closer and bends his head. He focuses on his brush, not on the proximity of their bodies, not bothering to look up to see the other's reactions, not to think about anything except what he's doing.

If this were anyone but Saitou, they might've moved, or tried to speak. But he is still, silent, like a sheet a paper. The difference is that he is skin and warmth and there is pulse in the wrist the Ibuki holds while he concentrates. When he finally pulls away, there is a sole flower on Saitou's right hand. At a time like this, he wishes he has coloured ink, for black ink will slightly grey on skin, the texture underneath breaking through. It carries none of the vividness of the blue flower he has replicated.

" _Muroto-aki_." Saitou looks down at his hand. "A bitter herb, used to treat stomach problems." While he doesn't change the tone of his voice, the question is there.

"Well, yes, it's that, but I also looked it up for its meaning. It means…justice. And loyalty." Ibuki shrugs. "It…made me think of you."

He receives a look that he can't quiet understand, but it's not annoyance or contempt, and that's good enough for him. This time, it's his turn to push a sleeve up.

The second image he tries for is less of an enigma—a branch, then sakura petals, gracefully trailing upwards towards a shoulder, still on the same arm. They end up in the strangest of positions, Ibuki holding up the other man's arm over his head in order to paint the inside of his upper arm.

"…I should've thought this through. Sorry." He apologises as he continues to hold up Saitou's arm in order to wait for the ink to dry.

"It is not a problem." The other seems to show no signs of fatigue. Likely after wielding a sword for so many years, something like this wouldn't be as tiring. "But why a branch?"

"Oh, because the Shinsengumi's sort of like a tree, isn't it? The leaders are the roots and trunk, and everyone else is the branches." He might've been slightly tired when he came up with it, but unless it's some truly stupid, Saitou wouldn't call it foolish thinking. "A tree would die without its branches."

"Have you ever considered writing?"

"Not really. It's not exactly my thing. My education was pretty bad…"

"It did not stand in the way of this talent."

"H-haha. I guess not." He presses his finger to a petal to check. "All right." He puts Saitou's arm down. "And—darn, I'm out of ink."

Back to scrubbing. When he happens to glance up, Saitou is brushing his fingers over his own arm, a thoughtful look on his face.

He almost can't believe that the other let him do this. It's…strange. But oddly nice, in a way.

"I think you'll like this one." He reaches for the left arm now, and starts with the palm this time. Even though he doesn't have a love or swords, he has a better respect for them now, after all this time. And he's not so unfamiliar that he can't picture the separate parts that make up the whole.

 _Kashira_. _Tsuka_ and _ito_. _Menuki_. _Tsuba_. _Habaki_ and _hamon_. And finally, _kissaki_. The length of it stretches from palm to shoulder again. His straight lines are a little shaky, but he adds a shadow and it's impossible to tell. When he glances over at the katana on the ground, he's please that he remembered the _menuki_ almost perfectly.

"How long did it take you?"

"To—?"

"Capture all the details of my sword."

So Saitou noted the menuki as well. Decorative grips were like the blade; they named the creator.

"I noticed it the first day we met. And since you usually carry your swords everywhere you go, I kept seeing it. Although seeing it unsheathed didn't happen as often so I can't remember if the _hamon_ was wavy or straight." He drew it wavy.

"It is correct."

"Oh, good." Ibuki sits back on his heels. "Then do you like it?"

"I do." Saitou holds his arm out. "You have a very good eye for detail. Better than many people."

"Really?" Better than many people? "I doubt it."

"No?" With his other hand, Saitou snags a piece of paper and pushes it towards him. "What is the pattern of fukuchou's kimono?"

"Um…" A frown, and then he dots out the latticework. It's the wrong colour, but he's pretty sure he has it right. "Something like that?"

"Draw the fan that Serizawa carries."

He snorts. "That's easy." Day in day out, he gets whacked by it no less than three times day. It's quick work, sketching out the lines and the little intricate details. "Next?"

"Souji's eyes."

"What, why?" He doesn't want to think about those eyes, but he draws them anyway—glint and glimmer of murderous intent included. "His eyes aren't too hard."

"What about mine?"

"…" Hesitation. "Wouldn't it be cheating, because you're right in front of me?"

"Then I will close them." Which he does.

Of course, he doesn't have a choice. Teeth nipping at the edge of his lip, he twists his mouth and envisions Saitou's eyes the best he can. A direct gaze, one that could pierce you all the way through and make you feel either awful or incredible, but also search you so deeply you felt compelled to look away, or to hold that gaze and be honest.

It takes him a little longer than expected, but he surveys the sketch and deems it done.

Saitou reaches out, as if he wants to touch it, but then stops himself.

Ibuki didn't expect him to _smile_.

"…Saitou?"

"Yes?"

"Is it…funny?"

"No, there is nothing amusing." His mouth sets itself back into its customary line, but even so, the tip of his mouth is curved. "But is that what I truly look like?"

"A lot of the times, yes. It's—it's a good thing!" Maybe he tried too hard. "A lot of people can't do what you do with your eyes. I'd actually be pretty terrified if I didn't know you."

"I see." Saitou is still looking at the sketch. "And all of this proves my point that you are quite observant."

He blushes. What? It can't be helped. "Well, thanks, I guess."

The ink is dry; Saitou stretches his hand and then curls it back. The katana moves with him, gracefully. Ibuki is struck by the sudden thought that, if he knew how to draw wings, he'd paint them on both arms.

"Um…"

"Yes?"

"Why are you letting me do this?"

Saitou puts his arms down. His sleeves slid to his wrists, covering everything. "Sometimes skills require one to be out of their comfort zone. This would be considered such, no?"

"I guess you have a point. So you're helping me?"

"Do you not want my help?"

"No, it's not that. It's…" he frowns as he tries to put his thoughts into words. "I'm the least deserving of help. I'm not even a part of the Shinsengumi. I'm just here until Serizawa-san lets me go."

"How you thought about why he keeping you here? If he turned you out, where would you go? What would you do?"

The barrage of questions, had it come from anyone else, he would've retaliated.

"Ibuki, whether you realise it or not, many of us are concerned for you." Saitou stands up, adjusting his clothing and scarf and picking up his sword. "And so we offer our help and advice in different ways. However, ultimately it is up to you to decide your path."

"I know that." He tugs at his bangs and scowls, a little. It's always like this. Everyone keeps asking him what he's doing with his life…he just sucks at figuring it out. Give him a break. "I'll…figure that out. Eventually."

"Then if you are fine this continuing this, I will see you tomorrow, at the same time."

"Ah—sure."

"Please excuse me."

From his estimate, that had been maybe forty, forty-five minutes. If not for the papers scattered everywhere and the evidence of ink, he might've thought this a figment of imagination.

It takes him another five minutes before he realises Saitou took the piece of paper with the sketch of his eyes. He hadn't even noticed him picking it up or tucking it away.

He's not sure what to make of that.

**.**

He's drawing a blank.

Shitty puns aside, he really doesn't know what to paint next. Other plants, animals, and weapons come to mind, but it all seems too simplistic. He scribbles page after page until it's dawn and he's rubbing his eyes and nearly getting ink in them.

In the morning, Ibuki trips over his own feet, crash-landing into Heisuke and sending them both toppling into Harada, who thankfully catches them before they actually did damage. To say the least, breakfast was a mess, with no help from Okita who probably choked on something while laughing. Later, he gets an earful from Hijikata, from Sannan, and then Serizawa sends him out to buy a million things. He comes back, only to realise he's missed something, gets hit, is sent out again, and by the time he comes back, he still has no ideas.

Afternoon finds him once again pacing. "I have nothing," he blurts out the instant Saitou steps into his room. "Just…nothing. A lot of things come to mind, but I can't…I don't think I can find anything else." He sits down—slumping down is more like it—and crosses his arms.

"Too bad this isn't anything like being talented with a sword. Stabbing and slashing is so easy compared to this. Ideas. Or inspiration. I don't know why it's so hard, but it is." He's not even one to run his mouth, but being up all night makes him feel like a different person. "…sorry. I don't think I'm good at this."

"I refuse to believe that."

"Thanks, but won't help me think."

"No, you are going about it the wrong way."

"What?"

"You're thinking too much."

Saitou, the one member of the Shinsengumi who probably spends more than half of his day in thought, is telling him to not think? "I'm…thinking too much?"

"Yes."

"Well, then what do you want me to do? Just start painting at random? I can't do that—I'll mess up."

"Why are you so afraid of that?"

"Messing up? Because you're not paper. Because…because—"

_You're literally perfect, Saitou. In so many ways. Everyone likes you, you get along with everyone, you don't have the issues about killing or following orders…you have your place. This is stupid but if I mess up drawing on you, it would mess up…perfection._

He bites down on his tongue. There's no way he's going to say that out loud. "It's…difficult to explain, all right?"

"Ibuki."

"What?"

With one finger, Saitou pulls away his scarf; it skims down the planes of his body, pooling in his lap. Only when he pulls down the sleeves of his outer kimono does Ibuki realise what he's doing.

"W-wait—"

A shrug allows his juban to slip down as well. "Don't think," he says simply as he turns to back to Ibuki, tugging his hair back to how it usually drapes over his right shoulder. "Just paint."

Easier said than done. His gaze wanders from neck to shoulder blades, down a rigid spine as well as the contours of muscles that shift in cadence with breathing. There are a few pale scars, but otherwise his skin is unmarked.

He takes a deep breath and dips his brush into the ink, twisting his fingers to let it soak the hairs a little more. Shuffling over, it takes him a few more seconds—the ink would dry—to inhale again and place his hand down, at random.

The tip touches skin; Saitou doesn't even shudder. Probably a bird could land on him and he wouldn't move. Ibuki wouldn't doubt it. He drags a meandering line, across from shoulder to shoulder. Excess ink drips down, slowly. Fascinated, he presses the flat of the brush against one shoulder blade to watch the trail of liquid trickle.

Like rain. But then there needs to be a few more drops…he repeats the motion and then looks at his work. Actually now it looks possibly like blood dripping, too. But he prefers to think of rain. He's seen Saitou covered in blood, yes. But usually it was on his face and hands and clothes, not his face. This is more reminiscent of something less violent.

Saitou isn't violent. Yes, he carries out violence and violence is used against him, but his nature, in a time, a different place, isn't of violence. Justice and loyalty, but those could possibly be carried out without violence in certain circumstances. It's just that his talents lay with wielding a sword, and anyone who picks up a sword as their occupation will have to kill, eventually.

If anything, beauty still is on his mind. While Okita is fairly graceful in his swordwork—in an almost carefree way, probably because he's a genius and it's like second nature, he carries an aura of excited danger, But Saitou is precise, careful, not from being a genius, but from practicing over and over until the moves are a part of him and it all moves like water or wind. Deadly as well, but in a calm, deliberate manner that sometimes is more menacing or more reassuring, depending on the situation.

"You stopped. Is something wrong?"

Damn, he needs to keep focused. "No, just…thinking again." He clears his throat. "I can…paint anywhere, right?"

Saitou looks over his shoulder, gaze even. "Yes, you have my permission."

Then to heck with his reservations. He now sits in front of Saitou, wets his brush again, and just a little underneath the collarbone, he renders a circle with one stroke, as clear as he can make it. It's the size of a coin, just a little above the heart, if his estimate is right.

"Ensou?"

"Oh, you knew about that?"

"I had read up on it. Fukuchou may have mentioned it once or twice…"

Huh, so even Hijikata had some hobbies beyond yelling at people. He'd only found it a day ago and he's nowhere near the level of those who have studied for years, but he wants to understand it. He wants to attain it.

Frankly, it's pleasing to see the lines on this one aren't shaky at all. He almost wants to press a piece of paper to Saitou's skin, just to save it.

It's a little like a full moon, unshrouded and open.

And then he's hit by a sudden spark of inspiration. "Hang on," he says, even if there's so need. He furiously scrapes out more ink until it threatens to overflow. "You can…close your eyes if you want."

"If I want?"

A half-shrug. "I'm more used to people seeing what I've finished, rather than watching my process."

"Very well."

When his eyelids shut, it's like a door closing and nearly all his anxiety is gone. Stroke by stroke, Ibuki maps the expanse of body before him, almost quite forgetting this is Saitou, this is someone he admires and can't put into words everything that he admires—there is just something in front of him, blank, clear, calling to be filled. He still regrets a lack of colour, but now the black-faded-to-grey streaks lend themselves well. He's so fortunate that Saitou doesn't slump or move much; the most he really moves is when Ibuki tells him to raise his arms. There's a slight quiver, but only just. Nearly everyone's sides are a little ticklish, but to Saitou's credit, he simply breathes a little more deeply.

"There." He stretches his arms and moves away. "You can open your eyes now."

He has painted a forest, a thicket of bamboo. Bamboo a fickle tree—a skinny plant, really, that tends to overgrow and flourish far too well. But it's versatile, durable, protective, and he likes the sound it makes when the wind rushes through and rattles leaves and branches…and there's a beautiful sheen to them in the moonlight. The ensou he drew previously had evoked the moon, bringing to mind bamboo.

Lips suddenly dry, he watches as Saitou cranes his head to look, but not touch. Sometimes, it's hard to read him, especially when he bends his head and his bangs cover most of his eyes, but then he looks up.

There's approval in that look. Undoubtedly.

Laughter rushes out of Ibuki as he flops onto his back. His brush goes flying and splatters ink across his face, but he doesn't care. "I think I did it." He didn't even know how long it'd taken.

Under other circumstances, or with any other person, this would have been nothing short of ridiculous. He's not an _irezumi_ artist, this isn't permanent, and it's…really simple. Simpler than the fliers he had produced. This wasn't even going to be seen by anyone else but him and Saitou.

"It's not perfect, but…but I think I got something." Smearing the ink on his fingers, he sits back up.

"Ibuki, if you think I am perfection, you are wrong."

He pulls up short. "What?"

Saitou suddenly grabs his hand and presses it over his ribs, where the ink is still wet. He tries to tug away, but the hold on his wrist is too firm. Up to this point, he hasn't…really touched him directly. There was the back of hand which would lightly bump against it when he was drawing, and yesterday he held the other's arm up, but nothing like this. It's like the instant his fingers are pressed flush against skin that his senses are suddenly heightened. Skin, tissue, muscles, organs—all beneath his hand, the warmth of another person. He can feel the ink sticking, clinging to the both of them—

And then his hand is released and he blinks while looking down. The leaves he's drawn are now imprinted in his palm and fingers, breaking apart when he flexes.

"Is that so bad, imperfection? Would you call this something ruined?"

He makes a noncommittal sound, unsure of what else to do. The leaves that entwine across Saitou's ribs are now slightly faded, no longer fresh, but they look as if they belong there.

"But you are wrong. Perfection is nature. Perfection is in what we strive to do, but I—" Saitou rests his hands on his knees. "I am not perfection."

He has to put something out. "You're-you're closer to it than me."

"Am I? I kill because I am told to. My abilities lie in that area. Your ability is to create, not destroy. Of which will make a more lasting impression?"

'If we're talking recognition, the Shinsengumi's got a better chance of that than just one person who has maybe an interesting in painting."

"Are we speaking on beauty or perfection? Or both?"

Either he's really transparent, or Saitou's too good at reading people.

He flushes hot and looks down. "Both, I guess." Damn Saitou and his eyes, the way he wore his hair, how he walked, how he fights. A mingling of finesse, annihilation, and tranquillity—things that don't exactly fit together, but something must have aligned for Saitou Hajime when he was born.

It's not that he's thinking like this on purpose—from the very beginning, Saitou had been different. Different in a way that's unique, if that made sense. That's not to say the others were ordinary; he remembers each member of the Shinsengumi distinctively. But none have made the impression that Saitou has. He's so fucking embarrassed now, at himself and his thoughts. He might as well he saying them out loud for the other to hear.

"Ibuki."

Something compels him to look up. The tone of voice, or was it his eagerness to be distracted from his thoughts? Whichever it was, he listens.

…the good thing is, he stopped thinking about his problems.

The bad thing is, it's replaced by the thoughts of "why is Saitou looking at me like that."

And the fingers brushing at his cheek take him by surprise. "Um," he begins, "Saitou?"

"There is ink on your face."

"Ah, that. I'll get it later. I'm used to it." It's almost bizarre; Saitou has more ink on him than he does right now.

"It suits you."

"It does?"

Saitou inclines his head. "Blood does not."

"Eh?" He frowns. "Oh, you mean…"

You draw your sword, and the blood of your enemies is splashed across your face, and sometimes it's your own blood. Him? Just ink. Ink, harmless and not as thick as blood. Ironically, ink is all over Saitou, but there is not blood on him at all. He actually shudders a little. It probably wouldn't be hard to kill him…he's awful at defending himself…

"I…I doubt that'll ever happen." Saitou killing him, he means. Don't worry, he won't spill secrets or anything like that. "I'm still here, right?"

Saitou still looks at him, at the ink on his face.

"I'll wash it off if it's bothering you—"

"I said it suits you." He touches it again. "Don't."

He would say something, but Saitou is trailing his finger down to his chin, then skimming over his throat. It's as light as his brush, and he imagines a line scrawling across his skin, even if he swallows and probably would've ruin the line, if the line had been real.

"Saitou?"

A knuckle brushes against his jaw, and he realises they're…quite close. It's the same closeness as when he painted on the other, but this is different. More like when his hand was pressed to another's body. Something warm tingles in the back of his neck. Words stick in his throat and don't make it out.

If swallowing ink didn't have repercussions, he'd trace Saitou's lips with his brush. They're thin on the top and fuller on the bottom, pale pink fading in the tones of his skin. He finds himself licking his own lips, swallowing hard. And then there's his eyes. The eyes that transfixed him the first day. Eyes that dug into your soul, not in a forceful way, but more like a nudge.

The hand is still on him. Probably if he said something, Saitou would move. They would go about the rest of day with their business. But this is…maybe the second time someone has placed their hand near his face with the oddest sense of concern that he's baffled by but is curious about.

No matter what Saitou says, there's definitely perfection in his lines and features. Beauty, too. And he has been allowed near it. It's not something he can say casually—'Saitou let me paint on him'. It's…it's out of the blue.

But here they are.

…and fuck it. Fuck his misgivings. He has to do it at least once, right? So Ibuki leans in, squeezes his eyes shut at the last moment, and kisses him. His lips are still a little wet, making it a rather messy kiss, but he did it.

He pulls away within a second, the flush back on his face.

"Sorry," he begins.

"I was waiting."

"…what?"

"If you had not done it, then I would have."

He sits there with his mouth open, Saitou's hand _still_ on his chin, and that's when the other kisses him back. No awkwardness about it, no missing his lips or accidentally biting down. Just an open-mouthed contact that spread the warmth in the back of his neck down to his chest and arms. It seems to narrow his world until he can feel hair that is not his brushing against him, and hands that were not his own sliding to his shoulders.

They draw apart to breath, though he needs it more than Saitou, it seems. He wants to ask if this his first time, but it can't be, not with a kiss like that. But he can't actually imagine Saitou kissing anyone…

…

Maybe he doesn't know to know. Or didn't need to know. The other man's face is flushed as well, though less noticeably than his own.

He suddenly feels far too hot.

"Was that all right?"

"A-ah." Dazedly, he replies, tugging on the collar of his clothes. "It was fine." Better than fine. Unexpected, but. Quite good. Maybe even a little too good. If they go any further there would actually be cause for discomfort—

Wait, he shouldn't even be thinking about "further."

But Saitou's just sitting there in front of him, half-naked, and he already knows his warmth from those fleeting touches. It's impossible to _not_ think "further."

"Ibuki."

"Hai…"

"I only want one answer from you right now: yes, or no."

Gods, was this it? "I—"

 _I don't know,_ he almost says.

It's like he can never make my mind up. He didn't technically say yes to being saved by Serizawa; he just reached for the rice ball. He didn't ask to be caught up in the Shinsengumi's problems, but neither did he say he wanted to leave. He didn't ask for sword lessons, but Saitou made him. He didn't expect to draw, but here he is, drawing.

"Y—" He coughs, gulps, and tries again. "Yes."

He's capable of choosing. At least once. Because it's this. Because it's Saitou. Even if his voice didn't even sound like his own voice. His heart-rate fluctuates and now it's awfully fast and he digs his nails into his palms.

He can do this.

He's seventeen and not stupid. Just…inexperienced. And wondering what it's like to be tackled and held down and…well.

This is fine.

Saitou doesn't push him down, however. He merely nods and kisses him again, just a little more deeply. It ends with Ibuki having to brace himself and his hand upsets the inkstone, causing him to jerk and move away.

"Damn it." He looks at his hand and arm. It's in the ends of his hair too, not to mention the awful state of his fingernails…

Fingers curl into his. "This is fine." Saitou tugs his hand away, ink pooling in the crevices and lines of his palm.

"But—"

"Wait."

When Saitou Hajime tells you to wait, you wait. Even if waiting involves watching a hand slide from your neck down to your chest while your clothing is pushed aside. Even when that hand press against your abdomen and you forget how to breath for two seconds, and you're being kissed until your breathing is the only thing you hear in your ears and your pulse feels like it'll bleed out of your skin.

He doesn't even know what he's waiting for. Is it for the way fingers weave in his messy hair that he barely cares about, snagging in tangles and gently tugging them out, or for lips that kiss where ink have not touched? Was it waiting, to watch Saitou come alive in a manner that's different from how he moves when he's in battle, how his eyes only seem to get deeper and the more he looks into them, the more he sees himself?

Forget his thoughts. Forget waiting. He wants to place his hands where he has placed his brush only minutes before, tracing the outlines of the leaves and the moon and running his fingernails down where ink has run on Saitou's back. Which he does, clumsily and hesitantly at first, but Saitou only sighs and relaxes, and he picks up his movements with a little more confidence.

By the time Ibuki actually gets more clothes off, he can't keep his hands off Saitou. He doesn't want to keep his hands off. And he doesn't want Saitou to stop touching him as well. Every caress, every grip, every kiss until he's aware he's rather short on air and he leans back.

He laughs. Even though stars and blackness float in his vision—he has to stop. He really needs air. But he laughs still harder at the perplexed look on Saitou's face.

"Sorry, sorry. I'm—"

Sort of relieved? Happy? Or maybe content? Even though parts of his body tingled and begged for contact.

"Do you want to stop?"

"Stop? No, of course not." That came off as way too eager, didn't it. He puts his arm over his face and tries to convince himself the sound he just made was a laugh and not a _giggle_. "Don't stop." Quieter, but mirth still creeps in.

"As long as you don't look away."

Easier said then done. Sometimes, even though you got lost in his eyes, you had to look away or else something in you gets a little fragmented. But Saitou presses hands to his shoulders, leaning over him, the end of his ponytail touching his clavicle like a brush sweeping over paper, and he looks up, face too warm, heartbeat too loud, and tongue too clumsy, but nothing in Saitou's expression says he's disgusted or discontented.

It's the opposite. It's completely the opposite.

They don't go all the way. Or maybe they did, by some standards. He doesn't know. What he does know is how it all played out—how hips could fit together, how hard Saitou can tug on his hair, how his legs can manage to wrap around a waist, hands running all over him, with kisses placed on his mouth and neck and how fingers can feel against all his most sensitive areas and escalate things impossibly fast—

Ibuki bites down on his own hand, eyes sliding shut, but not before he sees Saitou's parted mouth and how his shoulders spasm, and then he's disoriented by giddy pleasure that locks his muscles together and forces out sounds he didn't think he'd ever make.

When it finally fades and he reluctantly turns his head and opens his eyes, the inkstone is right next to him. Good thing it didn't get into his eyes. Saitou lies half-across him, his weight comfortable enough. They breathe together, a sign they have shared just more than space between them.

"Was that all right?" Saitou breaks the silence, voice deeper by only a hint.

"It was all right." In comparison, his is shaky. "It was better than all right."

Even if it were absolutely unexpected. He doesn't consider himself attracted to men. Men aren't on his mind. Girls were, and there was still…her.

And Saitou?

Saitou's just in a category all by himself.

Was this even attraction, or admiration that went places he didn't plan for it go? It's something mutual, for sure, and he realises it's been there from the beginning.

If he had said no, where would they be now?

"Saitou," he begins, "…did you plan this from the start?"

No answer.

He cranes his head and sees that the other has fallen asleep, with strands of hair sticking to his face and ink still on his skin.

That's a first. He holds his laughter, never thinking he'd ever see a sight like this. He takes it in: the closed eyes, flushed cheeks, the parted lips. This is one image won't ever be drawn. Some things are better when they're painted in memory, drawn in the lines of the mind so that only you could see and admire it.

A taste of perfection.

**.**

"Oh, if it isn't Ibuki-kun."

"What?" He pours more soup in the washbasin and curses mentally. Okita. Of course. Of all the people to catch him out this late, it has to be Okita. While that's preferable to Hijikata's freezing look, or Heisuke's teasing…Okita's bad enough.

"Isn't it a little late for laundry?" The other man leans against a supporting post, arms crossed. "Dinner is happening quite soon."

 _Why do you still carry your swords when you're off-duty…_ "Why, you have a problem with me doing it now?" Ibuki is imagining himself being gutted, while maniacal laugher echoes in his ears. This was so bad…

"Usually people wash their clothes when the sun is out—did no one ever teach you that?"

"Of course I know that! I'm not a child." The stains weren't coming out. Didn't he soak it long enough? Was he going to have to soak it all night? Maybe he ought to because this wasn't going to dry by tomorrow anyway. "But I feel like washing stuff right now—why do you care?"

"Because I wasn't aware you stole Hajime-kun's scarf."

He freezes. "It's not—"

"Oh, it's not? Last I checked, my vision is perfect. And anyone who knows Hajime-kun well enough knows that's his scarf. Are you calling me a liar?"

 _Shit_. "I'm not calling you a liar or anything!" He stands up. "So what if it's his scarf? I didn't steal it."

"Heh~? Then why do you have it?"

"It's none of your business."

"It's my business that you got it _dirty_. Did he lend it to you, and you played in the mud or something and now you're trying to hide your mistake? How shameful."

"No, it's nothing like that!" Deities, reasoning with Okita is sometimes like talking to a _wall._ "Stop making things up! Just because everyone calls me good-for-nothing doesn't mean I'm a bad person or anything…" A wall that could easily crush him.

"Then why do you have his scarf?"

"…because—" he sputters. His ears are red. Probably his face as well. There ink on his face, on his hands, probably his hair…underneath his clothes… "B-because—"

"Because I told him to wash it."

Oh good. He resists the urge to stand next to Saitou, who suddenly had appeared behind Okita. "See? I'm not doing anything wrong."

"Why is he doing your laundry, Hajime-kun? I thought no one was allowed to touch your scarf. Or should I say, scarves."

"Wait…you have more than one?" Ibuki bursts out.

Saitou looks at him. "Of course. The same clothes cannot be worn every day."

"But then…" he could've waited until morning. They wouldn't be standing here, Okita accusing him. "You should've told me."

Okita starts laughing again. "We sometimes forget not everyone has common sense."

"Shut up!" He would stamp his foot if it didn't appear childish. "I—I wasn't thinking!"

"Since when do you ever think, Ibuki-kun. You just go wherever someone tells you to, almost mindlessly." Okita's grin is much too wide for his liking.

"I do not!"

"Please be quiet. It's late at night and I'm sure people are sleeping." Saitou steps out of the shadows, and Ibuki starts. Saitou's hair is damp and loose…

"You…you bathed?"

He gets another calm look. "Of course."

Suddenly, he feels ridiculous, with the ink still on him.

"Wait." Okita looks first at him, then at Saitou, and realisation spreads across his face. "Don't tell me—the two of you—"

He feels his face burn when Okita starts laughing until he's clutching a wall for support and wheezing and somewhere in the distance, they can hear Hijikata shouting for him to shut up. If everyone shows up…he doesn't want to think about it…

"This is too great," Okita gasps, tears in his eyes. "Oh, this is…this is just…I can't imagine it…"

Ibuki feels like stalking off, but he can't just leave things like this. "I don't see how any of this is funny," he mutters.

"It is not." Saitou, unperturbed, looks at Okita.

And just like that, he stops laughing. "But really, Hajime-kun—with _him?_ "

How is that Saitou is not blushing or reacting strongly? Is he that unmovable? He'd give an arm for half the calm that Saitou possesses.

"Souji, I don't understand your question."

"Well, I'm just saying you have your fair share of choices…and you choose Ibuki-kun. Say, what was it? Clearly not his intelligence or skill. Was it something else? Is he obedient—"

"That's it. I'm leaving." He'll leave the damn scarf here and sit in a bath until he can stop thinking. Or maybe he'll just go to bed and wash tomorrow. So as long as he's away from this conversation.

"I didn't choose. He did."

He stops, mid-stride. "What? No, it was—"

When he glances over at Saitou, their eyes meet and he mentally takes a step back.

_"_ _I only want one answer from you right now: yes, or no."_

_"_ _Yes."_

Anything he's about to say is forgotten. "I'm…going to clean up. Don't wait for me for dinner—I'm not hungry. I'll have your scarf washed by tomorrow," he mumbles as he brushes by Okita and Saitou. "Excuse me. Good night."

This is so bad. He sounds like a little kid who doesn't understand relationships. Or someone who's utterly smitten and only now do they realise the implications of what they did. He needs a cold bath. Or least plunge his head into a river until his lungs burn.

Not like that's going to take away the memory of Saitou touching his chin and stroking down his neck, exactly like the way his brush moved across skin…

By the time Ibuki's back in his room, he's in such a state that he doesn't quite know what to do with himself. After you…sleep with someone, what was the proper way to go about? Pretend it didn't happen? Go at it again? And then what? He still doesn't know if Saitou's been wanting to do this for weeks, for it had been a spur of the moment.

So distracted is he that he nearly misses the folded note on top of his papers. In his agitation, it falls and bumps against his foot, whereupon his picks it up.

_Your work is a search for perfection and beauty, but it is already there. Do not forget._

Even alone in his room, he feels himself flushing for the umpteenth time as he slides down and knocks his head against the wall. There's…a lot that he doesn't understand. Why him, why Saitou, why this, why…why his life. He's not even good at living life.

But something had happened.

Ibuki stares down at his stained hands. There was…something. In between pleasure and throwing his thoughts to the wind, he feels like he's been allowed to be part of something.

There was purpose.

There was intent.

There was want.

In one afternoon, he'd experienced more emotions than he has in his seventeen years. They're different from anger and resent, from frustration. It's…happiness. He wouldn't call himself unhappy, but neither has his life been fulfilling. It's probably oversimplifying his problems and exaggerating the situation; however he can't deny Saitou has a capability for understanding people, for seeing something that he didn't think he had, and showing him a possible future.

He refolds the note and sets it to one side, hand scrubbing at the back of his neck as he chuckles in wonder.

Maybe, he'll see for himself what Saitou saw in him. One day. There's still enough time to thank him yet.

**.end.**

**Author's Note:**

>  **Random notes:** …I haven't done calligraphy in years (elementary Chinese school, like fifth grade or so). But I'm pretty sure I remember it washes easily out of skin. Clothes, not so much. Saitou and his white scarf, haha…poor Ibuki. He's probably better off buying a new one.
> 
> Also…go watch the Hakuouki musicals—you'll see what I mean by the difference between Souji and Saitou when they fight. I have no idea how Daisuke does it, but he makes Okita's moves look natural and devil-may-care. Ryo carries out Saitou's grace pretty much perfectly—especially the way he sheathes his sword and draws it. (Shougo and Ryo really capture the elegance of their characters really well) I might have a slight problem, yes…a Hakuouki problem.
> 
>  
> 
> **The actually important notes:**
> 
>  
> 
> Because I might as well put in explanations for Ibuki's drawings. I'm not a philosopher and there's probably a bunch of shit beyond me, but bear with me.
> 
> Muroto aki – So in the Sekkaroku OVA EDs, they show all the characters with flowers in the background. On the Hakuouki LJcomm, a lot of people took the time to figure out the flowers.. For Saitou, the info is wrong in the post itself (people were going with violets, which mean honesty and it does fits him) but it's corrected in the comments—his is a gentian. Info on hanokotoba (Japanese language of flowers) is really scarce, but I did find this—
> 
>  
> 
> **MUROTO Aki (Japanese gentian) - "I love you-who-are-sad"; justice; victory; faithfulness**  
> 
> 
> I'd say it fits him pretty well (and anyone you ship Saitou with, hah). He's faithful, fights to win, has a strong sense of right/wrong, etc.
> 
> Sakura branch and wind – Think of the Shinsengumi as a tree. Kondou is the roots, Hijikata the trunk, the captains are the branches. Seasons change, petals fall—the branches remains. So as long as the tree's roots are strong, the rest of the tree is strong.
> 
> Katana – Saitou sees himself as something to be used as the Shinsengumi, like a sword. It's for different reasons from Souji, but even so, it's extremely important to him. This one went on his left arm, because he's definitely unashamed of the fact he's left-handed, that his place is with the Shinsengumi.
> 
> Raindrops – Saitou looks good in rain. Just saying. In a way this is inspired by how he likes nature because it puts him to awe. I can't remember which chapter he says this in.
> 
> Ensou – I got lost reading up on Japanese aesthetics. Ensou is "a circle that is hand-drawn in one or two uninhibited brushstrokes to express a moment when the mind is free to let the body create. [It] symbolises absolute enlightenment, strength, elegance, the universe, and mu (the void)." I doubt Ibuki has reached that pinnacle, but he's experimenting, thinking of things that remind him of Saitou. It…it fits.
> 
> Bamboo – explanation basically given in the fic itself XD
> 
>  
> 
> ~~I can't even write something near crack gosh everything I do requires me to look things up or put way too much thought into it fjkdlas~~
> 
>  
> 
>  **Translations (I used way too much Japanese in this fic):**  
>  龍之介/Ryuunosuke – dragon's herald; 龍 "dragon," 之 "of" (like の), 介 "forerunner/herald"  
> Tsuka – hilt  
> Kashira/tsuka/ito/menuki/tsuba/habaki/hamon/kissaki – parts of katana (pommel/hilt/wrap/decorative grip/guard/sharp end). Yeah I might just be a little obsessive…  
> Juban – the garment you wear under a kimono  
> Irezumi – Japanese art of tattooing; it wasn't always associated with yazuka/criminals. That came about later


End file.
